


Trapped

by bookspark



Series: Harry Potter Drabbles [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark fic, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, dark Teddy, not what I think of this ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2018-08-08 10:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7754461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookspark/pseuds/bookspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has always been trapped by Teddy, and he always will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This is NOT what I think of the T/J relationship. It just came to me, sorry.

Stagnant. 

Frozen. 

Fixed.

This is what our relationship is like. We circle around and around each other, doing this dance. He takes a step forward and I take one back, always keeping the same distance between us. I am stuck here with him, unable to go anywhere. Trapped.

There are days when I don't even think of his blue hair, or deep laugh. Those days I feel like maybe I'm healing, that things will be fine. I remember that I don't need his class for N.E.W.T.s, how I have chosen a profession that will get me as far as possible from my supposed 'brother'. Those are days when I don't have History of Magic. 

The days I do have his class I sit as close to the door as possible. I come in seconds before the class starts and (if it's a good day) leave seconds after the class is over. Everyone wonders why I hate his class, which I have to admit is more interesting then when Binns taught it, but no one knows our history. 

Oh, they think they do. How he was practically raised by my father, how he always feels slightly out of the loop of our family, how I was jealous of Victoire when I saw them kissing right before my second year.

I wasn't jealous, I was scared. Scared he would hurt her like he's hurt me all my life. After the first few fumbles and little hands down pants, he started coming into my room with different faces. Even now, he'll sometimes "change it up" with new faces. But I've always been able to tell. 

His eyes never change. They are still as cold and hard as the summer I was seven, the first time he pushed a finger inside me. I can see the pleasure he gets out of my pain, shame and fear. The way his eyes lock on me when I walk to breakfast, still sore from the night before. 

When he sees the anger in my expression he waits until I am looking and then his cold eyes drift ever so slowly to Al, Rose, Hugo or Lilly. 

I can't let that happen.

So I go to the detentions, stay late to "help" put away the maps and historical texts, and never cry until after he's left for the night.


End file.
